
Title 



.T.5fcl4: 



Class .i...M.^.rX Imprint 
Book _feO— CaJ 



REPRESENTATIVE 
AMERICAN POETRY 



"Richard G. Badger is one of the few publishers who 
believe in present-day poetry, and are not afraid to ven- 
ture something on the belief. We look always with in- 
terest for his announcements, hopeful that his confidence 
will justify itself." — Christian Register , Boston. 

"Still there are publishers who do and dare in a poetic 
way. Richard G. Badger, the Boston publisher, is a 
very knight errant in behalf of poets." — New York Sun. 



REPRESENTATIVE 
AMERICAN POETRY 

Edited by 

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHEWAITE 
& HENRY THOMAS 'SCHNITTKIND 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 






Copyright, 1916, by Richard G. Badger 



AH Rights Reserved 



All of the following poems are taken from books pub- 
lished by Richard G. Badger. Any volume will be sent 
postpaid on receipt of price. 



©CI.A44e9U5 j^ 

The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



DEC ^aiillB 



CONTENTS 



Page 

The New Born Poets, by Daniel Sargent 1 1 

The Flag, by Edith M. Thomas 12 

My Garden, by Albert E. Trombly 13 

Selections from Catullus, by Mary Stewart 14 

Rosies, by Agnes I. Hanrahan 15 

The Seeker, by J. T 16 

Jo's Toboggan, by Harriet Prescott SpofEord 17 

Sin, Original and Actual, by a True Knight Errant. 18 

Maximilian, by Edgar Lee Masters 19 

Over the Hills and Far Away, by Florida Watts 

Smyth 20 

The Common Street, by Helen Gray Cone 21 

A Christmas Carol, by Najah E. Woodward 22 

Old Pennsy, by Albert Joseph Heil 23 

Mystery, by David F. Taylor 24 

Solitude, by Cotton Noe 25 

A Rondel, by Cotton Noe 25 

My Boy, by Julia Wickham Greenwood 26 



CONTENTS 



Page 
Have You Known A Tree, by F. W. B 27 

Ypres, by Mrs. John Archibald Morison 28 

The Gift, by Sara Teasdale 29 

For Hire, by Morris Rosenfeld 29 

L'Envoi, by Willa Sibert Gather 30 



INTRODUCTION 

WHEN artists begin to play and to put 
new wings to their fancies, we are on 
the eve of a great artistic awakening. 
The new schools of poetry that are 
springing up almost daily are significant 
not so much because of the intrinsic worth of this new 
poetry, but because of the fact that these attempts show 
a vigorous imagination that is too rich to be satisfied with 
the old channels of expression. The experiments of our 
futurists, our imagists and what not-ists may seem to many 
child's play. But they are the play of children whose toys 
are the eternal thoughts of God. These poets are only try- 
ing in their own way to model imperfect images of 
creation. But the material they work with is compounded 
of the flame of the heavens and the dew of the earth. 
The laughter that leaps forth from the hearts of these 
new poets often sounds ridiculously childish. Yet in the 
laughter of children and of poets the voice of God is 
often heard. These experiments, though often crude, are 
almost always sincere. And a note of primeval purity 
steals into the harshest voice, if only its tones are sincere. 
The new poetry is therefore significant both as an 
achievement, and as a symptom. The essence of true 
poetry will always remain the same, however the forms 
may vary. The rising and the setting of the sun are 
forever unchangeable; but when artists are beginning to 
see the sun's splendor in new ways, when they are looking 
at it with new spectacles of fantastic colors and fanciful 
shapes, they do not, to be sure, disclose to us new suns, 
but they show us that there are as yet many hitherto undis- 
covered angles from which we may see the old sun in a 
thousand and one new lights, discovering glories undreamt 
of before. The new poets are playfully trjang to invent 
an instrument whereby we may sense that world which 
heretofore has remained a closed book to us. Happy the 
country in which artists can afford to play, for the world 



INTRODUCTION 



is created anew in the heart of a poet at play. 

It is this spirit of play that signals the renaissance of 
poetic art in this country. That we are on the very brink 
of such a renaissance, if not actually in the midst of it, 
is now an accepted fact. There have been among our 
critics a number of intellectual cowards, who have always 
been afraid to look the art of our own generation straight 
in the face. These critics have maintained that all con- 
temporary poetry must be inferior because it is contemp- 
orary. Poetry to them, like wine, must lie in the damp 
cellar for years before it is good enough to be tasted ; and 
poets, like Confucius, must moulder in the grave for cen- 
turies before they are awarded the badge of divinity. But 
at last, thanks to a few fearless and unusually discerning 
critical pioneers, even the pettiest praisers of past perform- 
ances are beginning to realize that America is now add- 
ing to the permanent literature of the world a wealth of 
poetry of the purest gold. And, best of all, the American 
public is recognizing and appreciating good poetry, so that 
we now actually have a number of poets in this country 
who, mirabile dictu, are not obliged to go a-begging for 
their bread and butter and even occasional automobile 
rides! Every poet will soon have a real, concrete Pegasus 
of his own. 

Of the large amount of genuine poetry that is being 
produced these days, by far the larger quantity to my mind 
is not the 'Vers libre" or imagistic verse, but the old- 
fashioned poetry whose rhythms have stood the test of 
time. Perhaps the new poets have not yet attained a true 
touch and a perfect harmony in their experiments. Or, 
possibly, our ears have not yet become attuned to the 
subtler cadences. The reason for this does not concern 
me here, but the new schools have yet, I think, but few 
triumphs. The earth and the seas and the planets are after 
all moving and making music in the same way as of old, 
and it is this music that most easily sings itself into the 
human heart. It is with the hope of adding a few pure 



8 



INTRODUCTION 



notes to this eternal symphony that the editors of this little 
volume have selected w^hat to them seem to be some of the 
most genuine poems of the present day singers. 

Several of the names that appear in this book, such as 
Edgar Lee Masters, Sara Teasdale, Edith M. Thomas, 
Morris Rosenfeld, Willa Sibert Gather, Helen Gray 
Cone and Harriet Prescott Spofford, need no introduction 
to lovers of great poetry ; a few of the poets in this collec- 
tion have as yet hardly received a hearing. Most of these 
poems, however, reveal to us a momentary attitude of the 
eternal forms of beauty. 

I will not attempt to classify these poems or to com- 
pare them with one another. It is useless to estimate 
the relative worth of two or more works of art, just as 
though we were weighing sugar or analyzing patent med- 
icines. Every true work of art is because of its individ- 
uality isolated, and therefore incomparable. We can no 
more say that one genuine poem is greater than another, 
than we can assert that one flash of the lightning is greater 
than another. Some poems, of course, may have a more 
personal appeal for us, but to declare that these poems 
are therefore greater than other poems, is to assume a 
Rhadamanthian infallibility that is derogatory both to the 
reputation of the critic and to a pure appreciation of true 
art. The moment we begin to weigh and measure an 
inspiration, we lose the spiritual reality of that inspiration 
and reduce it to a mere physical thing, like a pound of 
lard. Great art, when weighed in the scales of Eternity, 
will not be appraised at so much per pound. This tape- 
measure and spring-balance method of criticism is, uncon- 
sciously perhaps, coming into vogue, and the sooner we 
abandon it, the better. 

I will therefore let these poems stand by themselves, 
without weighing their relative importance. Each one is 
in its own way, a thing of beauty, a glittering precious 
stone that paves the road on which the human heart in 
its rare moments reaches the stars. 



"More Poets yet!" — I hear him say, 

Arming his heavy hand to slay; — 

"Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' 
They seem to sprout where'er I go ; — 

I killed a host but yesterday !" 

Slash on, O Hercules! You may. 
Your task's, at best, a Hydra-fray; 

And though YOU cut, not less will grow 
More Poets j^et! 

Too arrogant! For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May? 

Who shall out-blot the morning glow? — 
Or stem the full heart's overflow? 
Who? There will rise, till Time decay. 
More Poets yet! 

— Austin Dob son. 



lO 



THE NEW BORN POETS 



The heavens with their stars still turn 

In pure primeval melody, 

And bright the stainless dawnlngs burn 

Eternally, eternally; 

And what the new-born poet sings 

Of unheard new-found radiant things 

Shall join the ancient changeless harmony. 



From OUR GLEAMING DAYS by Daniel Sargent. 
Antique boards, $i.oo net. 



IX 



THE FLAG 



There were three colors in the banner bright 
On which the maidens stitched and stitched all day. 
Their needles glanced, for with the morning-light 
Each saw her hero-lover march away. 

Save one the maidens stitch with fond proud haste; 
And her they chide, "Why do thy fingers lag? 
Think but how fair will gleam, by farm and waste, 
The red and white and blue of their loved flag." 

The maiden lifted neither hands nor eyes: 
"The red of flowing blood I see," she said, 
"The white of faces upturned to the skies, 
The blue of heaven wide above the dead." 



From THE WHITE MESSENGER by Edith M. 
Thomas, wrappers, 50 cents net. 



12 



MY GARDEN 



Within a secret garden-close, ^ 
Which none except my spirit knows, 
I dwell alone, aloof, apart, 
Attentive to my voiceful heart; 
And what it says from day to day 
No vulgar ear will hear me say; 
Yet in the world I play a role 
To mask the purpose of my soul. 
Men think they know me well, but I 
Was never seen by human eye; 
And kings who conquer sea and land 
Can never touch upon my strand; 
Not Love himself could ever win 
The sentinel to let him in! 
My wall is proof against assail 
And though men batter, I'll not quail. 
Alone, apart, aloof I dwell. 
My heart to me is heaven and hell ! 



From SONGS OF DADDYHOOD by Albert E. 
Trombly, cloth, ornamental, $i.oo net. 



13 



SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS 

SONNET ON HIS BROTHER'S DEATH 

Across wide lands, across a wider sea, 
To this sad service, Brother, am I bourn 
To pay thee death's last tribute and to mourn 
By thy dead dust that cannot answer me. 
This, this alone is left — ah, can it be 
Thy living self blind chance from me has torn, 
That cruel death has left me thus forlorn, 
And thou so loved, dear Brother, lost to me? 
Still, must I bring, as men have done for years. 
These last despairing rites, this solemn vow. 
Here offered with a love too deep to tell. 
And consecrated with a brother's tears. 
Accept them. Brother, all is done — and now 
Forever hail, forever fare thee well. 

FAREWELL— A SPRING SONG 

Spring again is in the breezes! 
Soft and warm and sweet they blow ; 
Hushed the equinoctial fury, 
Lulled by Zephyr singing low. 

And she calls to you, Catullus, 
Hasten, bid your comrades rise, 
Phrygian fields can charm no longer, 
Nicaea wearies heart and eyes. 

Dawn flames crimson, luring Eastward, 
Asia's magic blooms unfold, 
Golden cities nod and beckon. 
Who can tell what joys they hold? 

Wealth and life and love — and something 
Still unknown and far more sweet; 
Dreams outstrip the feet in spring time, 
Youth gives wings to eager feet. 
Say farewell to all your comrades, 
Each must wander as he may. 



14 



SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS 



Spring is here, and youth must follow 
Life and love its own sweet way. 

From SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS, trans- 
lated into English verse with an Introduction on the 
theory of Translation by Mary Stewart. Antique boards, 
$i.oo net. 



ROSIES 
There's a Rosie Show in Derry, 

An' a Rosie Show in Down ; 
An' 'tis like there's wan I'm thinkin' 

'111 be held in Randalstown. 
But if I had the choosin' 

Av a rosie prize the day, 

'Twould be a pink wee rosie 

Like he plucked whin rakin' hay. 
Yon pink wee rosie in my hair — 
He fixt it troth — an' kissed it there! 
White gulls wor wheelin' roun' the sky, 
Down by — down by. 

Ay, there's rosies sure in Derry, 

An' there's famous wans in Down; 
Och there's rosies all a hawkin' 

Through the heart av London town! 
But if I had the liftin' 

Or the buy in' av a few, 
I'd choose jist pink wee rosies 

That's all drenchin' wid the dew — 
Yon pink wee rosies wid the tears! 
Och wet, wet tears! — ay, troth 'tis years 
Since we kep' rakin' in the hay 
Thon day — thon day! 



From AROUN' THE BOREENS by Agnes I. Han 
rahan, antique boards, $i.oo net. 



15 



THE SEEKER 



Bring no laurel branches hither, 
Weave no wreath that shall not wither , 
Raise no pillared pomp to him ; 

He i^ dead : 
Truth he saw with eyes grown dim, 
Saw her lips move, strove to hear her. 
Closer crept and saw Death near her, — 

Heard her speak; 
Back he turned, his eyes a glory. 
He would tell the Ages' story — 

Hers the praise! 
Little recked he then of fame. 
Purified. in life's white flame — 
He beheld her face to face, 
What were man's immortal bays? 
Leave him lonely in this place 
Where his light went out for aye ; 
Here were ghostly finger tips 
Laid upon his eager lips — 

She passed by; 
Halted here her Fellow grim — 

His the stilly hand 
Chilling wondrous words unspoken ; — 
Truth had left our hope a token 

Had she willed: 
Scorning us she loved the Seeker, 
Humble we, but he was meeker 

Loving her alone. 
Cover up his life all broken, 

Unfu^lled; 
What he found is yet unknown, 

Yet unsaid: 

Come, let us go — 
Quit this place, as even She 
With no remembrance; he 

Would have it so. 

From RECREATIONS by J. T., cloth, $1.50 net. 



JO'S TOBOGGAN 



Waft a moment; careful — steady — 
Take your breath. All right? 

Good-by, earth and trudging people, 
We are off for flight! 

Hearts for half a slipping second 

Sunk in chill and fear, 
Kindle with the joy of fleetness. 

Answer cheer with cheer! 

See the hillside falling from us — 

Up in a balloon ! 
F e slide down the sky beside us 

The little yellow moon ! 

If the earth had any edges 

We should soon be there. 
Cold and sweet and dark and headlong 

Bounding through the air! 

All alive the winds go by us. 

Whistling wild and far; 
Tell me, now, is this a comet 

Or a shooting star? 



From THE GREAT PROCESSION by Harriet 
Prescott Spofford, antique boards, $1.25 net. 



17 



SIN, ORIGINAL AND ACTUAL 

You'll find in Chapter I. of Genesis, 

If to The Book an open mind you bring. 

Unblemished promises of real bliss, — 

Sweet, welcome words that make the tear-drops spring. 

Whose echoes all adown the ages ring: 

''Behold, I give thee every herb and tree 

For meat; dominion over every thing, 

Or fish, or beast, or fowl, where'er it be," 

Said our first god. And all looked on was good to see. 

In such a picture see the primal man. 

Reflection of the god he then conceived. 

No dwindling dwarf whose life was but a span 

The nightmare of distempered souls here breathed. 

Erect, full-chested, strong, his body sheathed 

A heart and lungs that even yet enforced 

His Mother Earth to give long life. Relieved 

Was spine by arms not then so wide divorced 

From nether limbs that brain o'erworked had come accurst. 

Nor through the tedious schools was Nature known. 

But full-flowered intuition quick revealed 

Her laws and varied forms. Responsive shone 

The stars. Day also uttered speech. Unsealed 

The spirit mysteries, the heartaches healed. 

Like to deep water-brooks his being ran 

A thousand years with veins not yet congealed. 

Communion with High Heaven not under ban 

Then, in the coolness of the day God walked with Man. 



From SIN, ORIGINAL and ACTUAL, The Plain 
People's Plaint. By a True Knight Errant, i2mo., cloth, 
ornamental, $i.oo net. 



i8 



MAXIMILIAN 



(To Mexico) 

Bazaine — Oh lovely land! 

Where each man eats his brother! — without salt. 
Oh Mexico, sweet garden; — full of weeds, 
Volcanoes, revolutions, haven of hell. 
Home of the one, the only true religion! — 
Of bread and butter. Rich, prolific soil! 
That nourishes two governments — alas! 

Carlotta, Maximilian s queen, speaks: 

We are like motes within a shaft of sun-light. 

Coming from darkness, into darkness going. 

And stand like fools, who peer within a mirror, 

Thinking the sad reflect is that which lies 

Beyond this glass of hope and fervent dream. 

So hurrying to enfold the mocking shadow 

The glass is shattered and the image flown! 

Josef a — Ah no, your majesty. Our souls shall live 

In some ethereal realm of higher being. 

Carlotta — Then if it be, 'tis thence my heart aspires. 

That is the only home that welcomes me. 

Maximilian, on hearing of Carlotta* s death'. — No more! 

Oh, tragic news! I thank thee, God in heaven 

Who set my sweet Carlotta's spirit free. 

No more! then never more to struggle here, 

Like some bright planet bufFeted with clouds. 

One tie the less to bind me to the world. 

No more! no more! I cannot deem her dead — 

She lives, for me as ever. 



From MAXIMILIAN by Edgar Lee Masters, wrap- 
pers, 50 cents net. 



19 



OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY 



Over the hills and far away, 
Out in the open this joyous day, 
Spring woods veiled in a misty blue. 
Broken clouds that the sun shines through ; 

All come who will, 

Over the hill. 
Over the hills and far away! 

Down in the valleys the clear streams flow. 
Up on the hilltops the fresh winds blow; 
Drink in the sweetness of rain-washed soil, 
Think no more of the town's turmoil ; 

Like a gray shroud 

Clings its smoke-cloud 
Over the hills and far away! 

Follow the roads that twist and wind. 
Hills in front and hills behind. 
Up to the crests where the sunset-light 
Flares and fades round each distant height. 

Night creeps so still 

Over the hill, 
Over the hills and far away! 



From OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AVS^AY 

by Florida V^atts Smyth, cloth ornamental, $i.cx) net. 



20 



THE COMMON STREET 



The common street climbed up against the sky, 

Gray meeting gray; and wearily to and fro 

I saw the patient, common people go, 

Each with his sordid burden trudging by. 

And the rain dropped; there was not any sigh 

Or stir of a live wind ; dull, dull and slow 

All motion; as a tale told long ago 

The faded world; and creeping night drew nigh. 

Then burst the sunset, flooding far and fleet. 

Leavening the whole of life with magic leaven. 

Suddenly down the long wet glistening hill 

Pure splendor poured — and lo! the common street, 

A golden highway into golden heaven. 

With the dark shapes of men ascending still. 



From SOLDIERS OF THE LIGHT and Other 
Poems by Helen Gray Cone, cloth ornamental, $i.OO net. 



21 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL 



Ye Angel descended on earth to rest, 

With ye bright little stars looking down ; 

And He gazed on the Babe on His Mother's warm breast, 
With ye bright little stars looking down. 

A carol He sang in the midnight sky. 

With ye bright little stars looking down. 
And He hung up the star for the Wisemen to spy ; 

With ye bright little stars looking down. 

As to Heaven He winged on His joyous, glad way. 

With ye bright little stars looking down. 
He breathed a bright blessing on Christ's Natal day ; 

With ye bright little stars looking down. 

So my Baby, sleep safe on Your Mother's warm breast, 

With ye bright little stars looking down, 
For the good Angel comes but to see thee at rest; 

With ye bright little stars looking down. 

He takes many babies up with him on high, 

With ye bright little stars looking down. 
But He smiles on my Baby and passes him by; 

With ye bright little stars looking down. 



From POEMS by Najah E. Woodward, cloth orna- 
mental, $i.oo net. 



22 



OLD PENNSY 



Hail, mighty State, old Keystone State! 
Hail, trusty nurse of Freedom's fate! — 
For in that day of tyranny, 
Twelve sister-states looked up to thee. 
Old Pennsy! 

When Independence with full throat 
Rang out her plaintive molten note, 
Thy vales the first to echo round 
The gath'ring volume of that sound, 
Old Pennsy! 

Then down in palmy Mexico, 
Rash Santa Anna's hopes sank low, 
When Pittsburg guns stood grim arrayed 
And belched forth Bragg's dread fusillade, 
Old Pennsy! 

Our tott'ring Union once thy ward — 
Thy willing sons Hope's body-guard — 
At Gettysburg, Rebellion reeled 
When Meade's fine legions charged the field, 
Old Pennsy! 

Ah, thou art first in battle-day; 
Ah, thou art first in peace-array; 
For Time's great secret of the North, 
Thy native Peary — brandished forth, 
Old Pennsy! 

Oh, when I'm gone, just let me sleep 
Where native vines and flowers creep; 
A native tree stand guard o'er me, 
A native son — a part of thee, 
Old Pennsy! 



From CORNUCOPIA by Albert Joseph Heil, cloth 
ornamental, $i.<x> net. 



23 



MYSTERY 



Eternal love is not a dull symposer 
It is a feast that in the soul is wrought 
It is divine, how can it be a loser 
Living supremely in sweet silent thought; 
It laughs to scorn the laws of petrefaction, 
And ever will with failing time prevail. 
The sentient gives but little satisfaction. 
But this eternal thing will never fail; 
I wonder if the eyes that measure time 
Are looking on while I indite this rhyme. 

The dewdrops on the rose appear newborn 
At early dawn, although they fade away. 
They are ambassadors to greet the morn 
That speak of love, and live in memory; 
And so I write of love — a maiden fair, 
A handsome youth, intelligent and wise 
She had the caste and the patrician air 
And he had ways that won the maiden's eyes 
So well they met, so well they stood together 
Like golden links you would not wish to sever. 

I saw them first at Santa Cruz; they walked 

Upon the pier fronting the Casino 

They were quite ardent, earnestly they talked. 

Moving in measured pace, stately and slow 

And as they passed the crowd would look around 

She was so beautiful, and he forsooth 

So noble looking you hardly could have found 

A finer specimen of noble youth 

I stood upon the pier, and looked that way 

The evening shadows marked the closing day. 



From MYSTERY or the Lady of the Casino by David 
F. Taylor. Cloth 75 cents net. 



24 



SOLITUDE 



To live alone where man, or beast ne'er stood, 
Ten-thousand miles beyond the site of home; 
To walk at night the catacombs of Rome, 

Or dwell within some deep death-haunted wood; 

To feel like Bonaparte with power endued. 
Yet doomed to sleep beneath the starry dome, 
And listen to the ocean chafe and foam, — 

Not this, not all of these, is solitude. 

But oh, to be alone within the hive 

Of teeming life, where thousands live and move 
And have their shallow beings, — there to strive 

With doubt and faith, and feel the soul expand 
Beyond the utmost reach of those we love, 

And know that they can never understand. 

A RONDEL 

October, queen of autumn days. 

With green and crimson leaves is crowned ; 

Her russet cheeks are sun-embrowned, 
Her hair all golden in the haze: 

She sits upon a throne ablaze, 

Her limbs with royal robes are gowned — 
October, queen of autumn days. 

With green and crimson leaves encrowned. 

But now o'erwlielmed in sad amaze 

She hears a far-off rising sound ; 

The hills and booming seas resound ; 
The plaintive wind her requiem plays — 
October, queen of autumn days. 

From THE LOOM OF LH^E by Cotton Noe. 
Illustrated. Cloth ornamental. $i.oo net. 



25 



MY BOY 



He was so young, 
My boy his country called upon to die, 

He was so gay, 
The joy of childhood still shone in his eye 
And from his lips the golden laughter rung 
From golden morn to golden set of day, 

He was so young! 

He was so strong 
That he made all our burdens his at length, 

He was so kind 
That nothing seemed a trouble to his strength, 
For happiness grew in his heart like song 
And hopes sprang up like flowers in his mind, 

He was so strong! 

He was so fair. 
Sad hearts were comforted, seeing his face, 

His glance was warm 
As sudden summer in a frozen place. 
The darkest hour grew bright if he were there, 
His smile, like sunshine, put to flight the storm 

He was so fair! 

He was so brave, 
I watched him when the regiment marched past. 

As he went by 
The sun grew dark for ever and a blast 
Of winter struck me from his distant grave; 
My boy whose country called on him to die. 

Who was so brave! 



From FROM DAWN TO EVE by Julia Wick- 
ham Greenwood, cloth, ornamental, $1.25 net. 

26 



HAVE YOU KNOWN A TREE 



Have you seen it sleeping, stilly sleeping, 

Every twig so quiet keeping, 

Have you tiptoed gently by it . 

Not to stir a single leaf, 

Feeling all it has to try it. 

How it needs the short relief, 

Have you seen it 
Soundly sleeping sleep so brief? 

Have you heard it shrieking, wildly shrieking 
'Neath the tempest, havoc wreaking. 
All its arms in anguish wreathing. 
Stripped of beauties, gaunt and bare, 
While the blasts so fiercely seething 
Branch from branches roughly tear; 

Have you heard it 
Sobbing out its wild despair? 

Have you heard its crying, piteous crying, 
When the woodman's axe is plying, 
To its very heartstrings reaching. 
Cutting all its life in twain; 
Heard its touching, sad beseeching; 
Heard it beg him to refrain; 

Have you heard it 
With each cruel blow complain? 



From RANDOM VERSE by F. W. B., cloth, orna- 
mental, $1.25 net. 



^7 



YPRES 



Ypres, April 22-24, 191 5 

Immortal they who won Ypres! 

O Canada! Thy sons untried, 

Died as heroes ever died. 

Was it the blood of all their sires 

Calling them on and on through fire? 

Exhaustion, agony, despair, 

A deadly gas that filled the air. 

Nor flinched, nor ever thought retreat, 

These lads, who did not know defeat. 

Fought on and on until they won. 

O Canada, thy worthy sons! 

The midnight hour in that dark wood 

Their souls in exaltation stood ; 

They vanquished death: Immortal they, 

Who saved the Empire at Ypres. 



From MY SOLDIER BOY and Other Poems by Mrs. 
John Archibald Morison, ornamental cloth, "$1.00 net. 



28 



THE GIFT 



What can I give you, my lord, my lover, 
You who have given the world to me. 

Showed me the light and the joy that cover 
The wild sweet earth and the restless sea? 

All that I have are gifts of your giving — 

If I gave them again, you would find them old, 

And your soul would weary of always living 
Before the mirror my life would hold. 

What shall I give you, my lord, my lover? 

The gift that breaks the heart in me: 
I bid you awake at dawn and discover 

I have gone my way and left you free. 



From SONNETS TO DUSE and Other Poems by 
Sara Teasdale, antique boards, $i.oo net. 



FOR HIRE 

Work with might and main 

Or with hand and heart, 
Work with soul and brain. 

Or with holy art, 
Thread, or genius' fire — 

Make a vest, or verse — 
If 'tis done for hire, 

It is done the worse. 



From SONGS OF LABOR by Morris Rosenfeld, 
translated by Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank, with 
frontispiece, antique boards, 75 cents net. 



29 



L'ENVOI 



Where are the loves that we have loved before 
When once we are alone, and shut the door? 
No matter whose the arms that held me fast, 
The arms of Darkness hold me at the last, 
No matter down what primose path I tend, 
I kiss the lips of Silence in the end. 
No matter on what heart I found delight 
I come again unto the breast of Night. 
No matter when or how love did befall, 
'Tis Loneliness that loves me best of -all. 
And in the end she claims me, and I know 
That she will stay, though all the rest may go. 
No matter whose the eyes that I would keep 
Near in the dark, 'tis in the eyes of Sleep 
That I must look and look forever more, 
When once I am alone, and shut the door. 



From APRIL TWILIGHTS by Willa Sibert Gather, 
antique boards, $i.oo net. 



30 



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